


Badges

by thesometimeswarrior



Series: Hold the Fort: Pictures of Hogwarts During the Year of the Carrows [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Disfigurement, Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Permanent Injury, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:11:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8447194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesometimeswarrior/pseuds/thesometimeswarrior
Summary: "It hadn’t been Fiendfyre (thank Merlin!), but it had been magical fire, so there was only so much the Healers could do, after."Neville reflects on his scars.





	

It hadn’t been Fiendfyre (thank Merlin!), but it had been magical fire, so there was only so much the Healers could do, after. It didn’t hurt anymore—the pain had gone away within a few weeks of the Battle, even before all of his hair grew back—but there were scars: noticeable, blotchy ones all over his forehead and ears, running down the length of the back of his neck.

It hadn’t mattered so much, when he was an Auror. Everyone had scars then—it was almost a prerequisite—and it made him seem tough, tougher maybe than he was, made scaring the bad guys easier, made catching them easier. Now that he was a teacher, though, it was harder. Many of the students knew, of course, had heard stories, found it exciting, _cool_ even, to stumble into the greenhouse and see their Herbology professor, Head of House for some, with a face marked with scars he’d gotten from _him_ , fighting in the last moments of the War. Some, hushed in awe, even asked to touch them, to run their fingers over his rough red forehead, to feel his leathery skin. He found this odd, but occasionally he obliged.

But not every student knew. Muggleborn First-Years who had not yet heard of the War or of him would flinch when they saw him for the first time, and find it hard to make eye contact thereafter. And even some of those who _did_ know from whom the burns had come, and when, and how, saw them and thought pain, thought pity, thought guilt that it was he and not they bearing those marks, he and not they who had to live through what he did, and found it difficult to concentrate on their mandrakes, on their Careers Advice meetings, on his gentle encouraging voice, saw only flames when they managed to look him in the eye.

Sometimes, he wondered what their boggarts would look like. Sometimes, he was afraid they would look like him.

In the greenhouses, he could get away with wearing a hat, and so did, frequently. And no one would have protested, of course, had he worn one inside the castle, as well, given the circumstances. After all, Dumbledore had. McGonagall did. But he wasn’t like Dumbledore, like McGonagall, and he wasn't Headmaster besides, so he tried not to, tried to be gentle for his students, tried not to be ashamed. 

But some days, it was hard. And after these, he would crawl into bed in his quarters in Gryffindor Tower, and do all he could to keep from weeping. And Hannah would crawl in next to him, and tenderly kiss each inch of his reddened flesh. And he would remember how her eyes had blazed—hot as magical fire—in the Room of Requirement right before the battle, how they had held hands for the first time then in their fear, and after the battle in their grief and relief. How she had kissed him for the first time, when the flesh was raw and still painful, right after. And he would remember what these scars were: badges. Badges of honor.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Comments are my bread and butter! ;)


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